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A muggy day unexpectedly turns warm.
Aizawa idly watches the passing clouds; black ones turn to grey, turn to white, and then dissipate entirely. The rays of sunlight that have been trying to peek through all morning become pure sunshine; much too bright and dangerous to stare at directly.
“We should go out sometime,” Shirakumo says from beside him, quirk activated and a literal cloud carrying him along their journey, the only remaining cloud in sight.
Not that Aizawa will admit this aloud, but Shirakumo’s ability to string sentences together and have it sound as though no thought has gone into them whatsoever mildly impresses him. Carefree, as if no thought was ever required in the first place.
Aizawa turns to look at him, hoping Shirakumo’s expression will provide further insight into the seemingly out-of-nowhere conversation starter, only to be met with the usual fresh-faced boyish charm. That impresses Aizawa, too: Shirakumo’s ability to always appear so sunny, no matter the circumstances. Much too bright and dangerous to stare at directly. So Aizawa doesn’t.
“We’re out right now,” Aizawa says matter-of-factly, his attention turning to pavement; remnants of the not-long-since-past rain cling to the concrete slabs, dampness permeates the air around them as its baked away by the sun.
“Shōta,” Shirakumo says, the name tinged with an amused lilt.
Aizawa’s heart skips a beat hearing it. That’s been happening a lot lately; particularly where Shirakumo is concerned. And he knows it’s not because of the flagrant use of his given name without any consultation—he got over that a long time ago when he realised his complaints were falling on deaf ears. Besides, Shirakumo has a certain way about him when he says it.
“Shōta, Shōta, Shōtaaa…” Shirakumo repeats, almost sings, effervescent as ever. “This isn’t out. We’re on patrol, it doesn’t count.”
“Oh,” Aizawa says, still reeling from his earlier heart murmur.
He takes a deep breath in through his nose, calmed by the smell of the still rain-fresh air, wondering what it is about Shirakumo specifically that causes it. A deep-seated jealousy over the way Shirakumo is so effortlessly free-spirited in a way that Aizawa could never be if he tried? An innate desire drawing him to Shirakumo’s easy warmth, an unyielding ache to embody even a smidgen of the other boy’s natural sunny demeanour?
Maybe it has nothing to do with Shirakumo at all. Merely a coincidence written in the stars.
“I mean,” Shirakumo continues, oblivious to Aizawa’s inner deliberation. “We should go out sometime outside of school or work studies. To the movies, or the arcade, or—oh! You like cats! We could go to that new cat café that’s just opened up!”
Aizawa scratches his neck in thought. He supposes it makes sense, hanging out outside of their duties; together with Yamada, the three of them have become quite friendly. Maybe Aizawa would go so far as to call them actual friends, even though that choice was forced upon him rather than actively decided, but he isn’t as entirely opposed to succumbing to this part of the high school experience as he initially thought.
“I guess, yeah,” Aizawa shrugs. “Let’s check with Yamada to see when he’s free.”
Shirakumo laughs then and it’s a musical noise, as pleasant as the glistening puddles below Aizawa’s feet and their accompanying splish sound when he carefully steps in them, his boots shielding him from the wetness.
Aizawa doesn’t know why Shirakumo is laughing, and the resulting magnetic pull that emerges from it almost has him turning again, wanting to search for the reason. Instead, his attention is briefly stolen by the sound of a car coming up behind them, and logic wins over yearning once more when Aizawa turns the other way to check for puddles in the road that might actually soak them. Fortunately, there are none.
“You’re so funny, Shōta,” Shirakumo continues on, his words still tinged with amusement.
Shirakumo is totally oblivious to any potential reality that he may have been splashed by a car. Or totally indifferent to that reality, aware of its potential but without a care in the world; Aizawa can’t tell. And he’s still none-the-wiser to what it was he said that elicited such amusement from Shirakumo, but he doesn’t need to wait long for the answer.
“I’d love to hang out with Hizashi too, sure! But I’m saying just you and me.”
That…doesn’t help.
“Just us?”
Aizawa frowns down at the curb when they reach the pavement end, stopping to check for oncoming traffic. Now he really does wonder if Shirakumo talks without thinking, because what possible reason could he have for wanting to spend alone time with him outside of school when Yamada is as much a part of their group as he is? More so, even, when Aizawa has always been on the outskirts; a part of the trio but not quite painted with the same brushstroke as Yamada and Shirakumo.
“Won’t Yamada feel left—” out, Aizawa had been about to say. The word cut off by the gentle press of Shirakumo’s lips against his the moment Aizawa dares to face him.
There goes his heart again: skipping a beat. And then one or two more for good measure.
The kiss is brief, but it’s long enough for Aizawa to register how soft Shirakumo’s lips are. Long enough to taste their sugary sweetness, a fact that Aizawa is surprisingly not shocked to learn. He’s not usually fond of sweet things but, well, he affords himself a small moment to indulge in this one. It is his first kiss, after all.
Shirakumo’s warmth remains even after he pulls away, beaming down at Aizawa from his perch on his cloud. Aizawa blinks a few times, and then a few more until his stupor passes and the now-in-the-past kiss settles in his bones. He really had no inkling the trajectory of their conversation would lead to this but thinking back, maybe he should have; how naïve.
“You mean like a date,” Aizawa says dumbly, eventually, when it occurs to him how silent it is and how patiently Shirakumo is waiting; watching him.
“Yep!” Shirakumo replies, as happily as ever without even a lick of concern that he’ll be rejected.
“W—” Why me, Aizawa wants to ask, now more confused than ever why someone as radiant as Shirakumo could ever want to date someone as lacklustre as him. Instead, he settles on the only other thing that comes to mind: “Won’t that ruin your hero agency dreams?”
The question initially made sense in Aizawa’s mind; working together and dating is probably not a good idea. Now that he’s said it aloud, he wonders if Shirakumo will understand what he’s inferring.
“Our dreams,” Shirakumo breezily corrects him. “And there’s no way! It’ll be the best, working alongside you every day. I can’t wait!”
Aizawa doesn’t know where to go from here. He’s never been asked out before. Never been kissed. Shirakumo’s still lingering warmth gets even warmer when realisation hits and Aizawa feels his face flush with probably twenty different shades of red, much too obvious against his otherwise fair skin. Wearing this much black in this much sun was not a good idea.
“So, how about it?” Shirakumo asks with a level of optimism Aizawa could only ever dream of.
His heart is no longer skipping beats; instead it pounds heavily in his chest, his ears, his bones. It compels him to inch closer to Shirakumo, ignoring all he’s ever been told about flying too close to the sun.
“Uh, yeah…” Aizawa says. “Okay.”
“Cool!”
Shirakumo’s boyish grin is blinding and Aizawa feels impelled to return it, offering an almost imperceptible smile before dropping it entirely. He isn’t sure if Shirakumo even catches it, small as it was, before they’re interrupted.
“Hey, it’s Loud Cloud!”
Shirakumo turns his attention to the group of kids scampering their way. “Ooh, if it ain’t the nursery brigade, out on a march!”
The previous conversation now goes abandoned, the intense sunlight of mid-morning beating down on them as Aizawa helps bundle a bunch of over-excitable children onto Shirakumo’s cloud; for now, the only remaining cloud in sight.
*